New Romantic
by Zayz
Summary: T/Z. "Five years ago, when he first met her, he would never have guessed she would be the kind of person who ever fell flat in anything." Tony and Ziva grapple with the change in the air. Post-8.17, One Last Score, but disregards episodes after.
1. a picture is worth a thousand words

A/N: The story takes place the morning after 8.17, "One Last Score" – and we're going to pretend that the episodes afterward never happened.

The title, "New Romantic," is a phrase I stole from Laura Marling, who wrote a song of the same name. I liked it because I don't think many of us really like those dramatic, traditional, breathless, old-school love stories anymore. We don't want the old romantic, we want the new romantic, which is uncertain and strange and raw. That was the aesthetic I really wanted to capture with here – a modern, "real" love story worthy of our Tiva.

As usual, eternal thank you's go to my epic beta, _Wilhelmina Willoughby_, who is so good and so patient and so spot-on about everything.

And I can say with full confidence that without the lifeboat that wasFlorence+ the Machine's album "Lungs," I could not have written a single coherent word here. If you need a soundtrack while you read, or if you just like good music, check her out. Every song she writes is amazing.

So…that's it. I hope you like this. Good luck in there.

* * *

**New Romantic  
By: Zayz**

As I move my feet towards your body  
I can hear this beat, it fills my head up  
And gets louder and louder  
It fills my head up and gets louder and louder

Louder than sirens  
Louder than bells  
Sweeter than heaven  
And hotter than hell

I swallow the sound and it swallows me whole  
Till there's nothing left inside my soul  
As empty as that beating drum  
But the sound has just begun

-Florence and the Machine, "Drumming Song"

* * *

That morning, Tony awakens to light rain, a wash of blonde hair, and a tidal wave of a kiss.

He hasn't even opened his eyes yet, but he is immediately cognizant of a pair of lips pushing insistently against his, forcing his head to sink down, down, down into the pillow, muffling the sound of the rustling sheets around him as though he's underwater. He is so shocked that for a moment, he forgets where he is and attempts to make a noise, push off the extra weight, catch his breath. She refuses to let up, though, as she playfully nips at his lower lip – and only then does he realize what's going on.

EJ. They are at EJ's place – which means that he is in EJ's bed – and he is kissing EJ.

EJ. The flashbacks flicker: the shower at work; the first kiss, experimental; the sloppy kisses that followed and the drive to the hotel she's staying at while she finds a place; the sloppy, hungry kisses in the elevator and the mad rush to the bed.

Yes, he remembers now – and things are starting to make a lot more sense.

At last sufficiently aware, albeit with some lingering grogginess, he returns her kiss, arching his neck up to her, and he feels her legs straddling him securely on the side, her hands in his hair. Her kiss is nice, Tony muses – certainly a better alarm clock than the screaming piece of plastic machinery he owns – and he could certainly get used to this.

He can feel EJ's smile against his lips, then his own against hers. His chuckle is low in his throat, his hands find her waist. He pulls her into him and she lets her weight fall on his torso, her hair falling forward into his face, tickling his nose and his eyelids, smelling of artificial watermelon.

He indulges for several long, quiet minutes before EJ finally breaks the kiss and sits up on him, her weight all warm on his abdomen, her blonde hair wild and curly on her shoulders. There is a faint crease from the blanket on her cheek. Her lips are full and pink and slightly bruised-looking, but pulled up in a lusty half-smirk.

"Good morning to you too," says Tony, grinning as he rests his hands beneath his head, elbows out like butterfly wings.

"We have to go to work," says EJ, reaching over to grab a hair-tie from the bedside table, her hair in his eyes again as she leans over him. "Figured this would be the fastest way to wake you up."

"You figured correctly." Tony's eyes follow her fingers as she ties her hair back in a messy ponytail.

She merely rolls her eyes. "Well, it's also more fun than trying to shake you awake."

"You know, I like the way you think," says Tony, easing her off of him and plucking his boxers off the floor.

"I thought you might." She watches in amusement as he slips into the boxers and gets out of bed. "We need to be out of here in twenty minutes. Think you can handle that?"

"I'll take that as a challenge," he announces. "I'll be ready in fifteen minutes."

"Perfect."

Tony crosses the room to retrieve his shirt and his pants, and he is just about to ask if he can use the shower first when EJ opens her mouth and asks, "We're going separately to work, right?"

He turns to look at her; she is still sitting on the bed, clad in her underwear, stray strands of blonde hair sticking out of her ponytail haphazardly, eyes on him.

"Yeah," he says. "Of course."

* * *

Much to Tony's satisfaction, EJ is nowhere to be seen that morning when he steps out of the elevator and into the squad room. His fear of awkward confrontation thus assuaged, he saunters – no, struts – to his desk with the kind of relaxed, mellowed-out grin that often means trouble for those around him.

Ziva, of course, notices this at once. It's hard not to; Tony's facial expressions rarely leave anything to the imagination, and this morning is no such exception. Her eyes narrow slightly, a smile curling at the corners of her mouth, and she gives him a once-over from over her computer monitor.

"Having a good morning, Tony?" she eventually asks, eyebrows raised.

"Indeed I am, Zee-vah," remarks Tony, leaning back in his chair, his feet up on his desk, as he meets her eyes and waits for his computer to warm up. "And yourself?"

"I'm fine," she says, typing something on her computer though her attention has not budged in the least from the senior field agent. "Just glad the rain let up so I could get into the building without getting soaked."

"The rain let up?" Tony glances curiously at the window – where, indeed, raindrops cling but new ones are not congregating. "I didn't notice."

"Clearly, you have had a very good morning." Ziva smirks, eyeing him up and down again with that X-ray look of hers. "Good cup of coffee?"

"Something like that." He scans the office for something to distract her, because the look on her face doesn't bode well for his privacy; he settles on McGee's empty desk and asks, "Hey, do you know where McTardy is? Because Gibbs will be down soon enough with a case and if he's not here—"

Before he can finish the sentence, the elevator gives its gentle _ding!_ and two people step into the bull-pen: McGee, slightly wet and clearly a little frazzled, and EJ, though she is much more serene and also holding a cup of Starbucks in her hand. Both Tony and Ziva glance back at them – and Tony's face goes unconsciously and inexplicably pink.

"Good morning, McGee," says Ziva as McGee hurries to his desk, dumping his things on the ground and scrambling to log in to his computer.

"Morning, Ziva," he says. "Is Gibbs here yet? I ran into some really bad traffic this morning, there were some accidents along the way, couldn't get here any sooner—"

"Relax, McGee, Gibbs hasn't been here yet," she says, grinning. "Is that why you are so impatiently staring in that direction, Tony? Searching for Gibbs?"

"What? Gibbs?" Tony tears his eyes away from where EJ is taking off her jacket with her back to him, focusing in on Ziva with sudden fear. "Is he behind me?"

"No, he is not," says Ziva. She is clearly enjoying herself. "Who are you looking at?"

Flushing pink again, Tony mumbles something that sounds like, "Nobody," but Ziva turns around with interest to survey the place where Tony's eyes had lingered. And when she sees EJ untie her hair from the ponytail so that it lay loose like strands of corn-silk down her shoulders, her eyes trying with limited subtlety to look unconcernedly at the desks directly behind her, Ziva's grin widens.

"Oh. The Spanish one." Her eyes are alight with intrigue. "I should have known."

"She's not Spanish," Tony corrects without looking at her. "She's American, but was transferred to Spain for a little while. And she's obviously back now."

"That is _fascinating_, Tony," says Ziva, smirking. "Please, tell me more."

McGee peers at Tony with interest as well, slowing down his computer start-up routine in order to hear better, but Tony is saved by a gruff voice announcing, "There will be plenty to tell when we get to Quantico, Agent David – all of you, grab your gear!"

The reaction is instantaneous and familiar: the three of them scuttle off to their respective corners, grabbing their things, while Gibbs sails right past them for the elevator. They follow the boss, preparing for yet another crime scene, yet another death – but Tony catches Ziva's eye and instead of finding the customary glitter and mischief, promising to torture him later, he finds a strange emptiness in her irises.

It's only a flash, before she averts her gaze and he averts his, so he tells himself it's a trick of light and tries not to think about it as the doors close an inch from the tip of his nose.

* * *

The clouds remain heavy and ominous when the team reaches the crime scene, a small park on the edge of Quantico, so processing the place is a brisk, efficient affair with little outside chatter. Tony loses himself in the job, the search for evidence; Ziva flits like a restless ghost with the camera, capturing everything on camera.

As Palmer loads the body-bag into the van and the team prepares to pack it up, the clouds finally burst and it begins to rain. It should start with little drops and progress into the full-on shower, as rain normally does – and maybe it did. But all Tony knows is that in the space between moments, he goes from dry to damp and he doesn't know what hit him.

The NCIS agents take cover inside the van, grateful they got their scene before Mother Nature took over. Tony is about to turn to Ziva, make some kind of smart remark or movie reference about the sudden storm – but as quickly as the storm came, she leaves his side, asking Gibbs for the keys and sitting behind the wheel, speeding through the wet streets with her usual irreverence for speed limits, never looking back at him once.

* * *

The team arrives back to the office and gets straight to work; Tony and Ziva log into their computers and McGee runs down to help Abby in the lab. Gibbs gets a call from Vance's office and storms upstairs in his usual fashion.

Ziva tells Tony to get the background on the dead Marine; she'll go through the finances. There is nothing unusual about the way she says it, and he gets straight on the job before Gibbs can appear behind him and ask what he's got, but he can't shake the feeling that something is wrong, that she's looking at him, that she's off somehow.

He knows she always keeps her email open while she works, so he digs through his old mail until he finds a forward sent to him three weeks ago by an old buddy from Baltimore PD. It's a stupid forward – the joke isn't even funny – but he sends it to Ziva anyway, wondering if she'll respond.

He watches her closely after he hits the send button. He sees her look in surprise at the new message that just popped up in her Inbox; he hears the click of the mouse as she opens it up and scans through it.

A moment later, she snorts loud enough to startle him.

"Tony, you sent this to me three weeks ago," she says irritably without looking up. "Get back to work."

"Killjoy," he remarks.

She smirks as she always does, but she still doesn't look up.

* * *

The rain doesn't relent that evening; thunder rumbles, a bolt of lightning electrifies the sky, and McGee mumbles something about new shoes and lots of wet mud as he shoots the window a forlorn glance. Tony opens his mouth, presumably to mock McGee's choice of shoes, when the phone rings. It's Abby, asking for Gibbs. She's got something. But Gibbs has been MIA for the entire afternoon – probably in MTAC now with the director – and the team wordlessly agrees they could all use a brief diversion. Tony tells her they will be right down.

The familiar sounds of death metal accost them the moment they step out of the elevator, and Abby accosts them the moment they enter the lab.

"Hey!" she says, giving Tony, McGee and Ziva a tight, one-armed hug each.

"Hey, Abby – you had something?" asks Tony.

"I do," she says, grinning. "Come on, let me show you."

They follow her to her computer, where three different colorful windows are at work. Tony is about to ask if she identified any prints, got any leads – but she opens up another window on the computer: the NCIS crime scene photo gallery.

"I was just flipping through these to see how far back my files went," Abby explains. "I was waiting for the fingerprints and stuff to finish – and then I found a whole bunch of really old pictures in here. Like, five years old. Look!"

Tony, Ziva and McGee come in a little closer. Indeed, from the dates on the snapshots of the bodies, the cases are about five years old. McGee grins reminiscently, reciting back some of the details, some of Gibbs's more famous interrogations; Ziva laughs as she remembers how much paperwork McGee and Tony dumped on her back then. Tony, however, goes through more of the pictures, clicking on them to bring them to their full size and scrutinizing them. Sure, he remembers the cases as well – if not better – than McGee or Ziva do, but he's struck more by the fringes, the shots of the three of them as they bustled around the crime scene like it was home.

There was McGee, before he lost all that weight – it's a bit of a jolt, honestly, because Tony is so used to the slim, lean version. And then there he himself was, not much different, but perhaps a little slimmer, a little less lined, a little jollier, caught smiling widely more often than not by the omnipresent NCIS camera.

And then there was Ziva.

The most marked difference is in her, no question about it. In the old pictures, her hair was shorter and much darker than its present toffee-brown – and it was so _wild_, all those curls exploding to the sides, irrepressible. He had forgotten how big it used to get, how she let it go free, no ponytails; how she was wearing a bandana the day he met her.

He glances once at the woman to his right; she, with her long straight hair and pretty white shirt, would not be caught dead in a bandana.

Tony keeps scrolling through the photos. Ziva is in plenty of them. She was a wiry kind of skinny, some part of her always blurred because she was always moving, too energetic to be captured in a single frame. He finds himself drawn to her, as he looks at all the thumbnails, lost in all the memories.

He is brought back to Earth by McGee's elbow in his forearm. Besides the pictures, Abby also has a few identified prints and the make of a car that left tire tracks nearby. She chastises Tony for hogging up the computer when she has discoveries to share – would she have called him down if all she had were pictures?

Ziva and McGee smirk as Tony apologizes. Abby is about to run down a couple of other things she found when Gibbs himself walks into the lab holding the usual Caff-Pow. His expression upon seeing all three members of his team downstairs with Abby clearly asks if they have anything else they could be doing.

They promptly disappear before Gibbs can unleash the head-slaps.

* * *

By eleven o'clock at night, the case hasn't gone anywhere and Tony is beginning to get restless. It doesn't help that the sky is dark beyond the office window and it's still raining.

It doesn't make any sense to him. It has been raining all day today, and it rained yesterday too, and it rained the day before and even the day before that one. But it's still raining now and he's going to get wet again on his way out of the building and his shoes are already a wreck and it's enough with the water already. Enough with the gray. Enough with the monotony and nature's crocodile tears. There's only so much he can be expected to take.

Gibbs was sufficiently pissed with the progress – or lack thereof – with the current case. He left a few hours ago, determinedly aloof when McGee had asked if they, too, were dismissed. But his question was hopeless and all three of them knew it; with Gibbs, the unspoken rule was that you either got something by the next day, or you got a head-slap.

So the members of Team Gibbs remain in the near-empty office, tapping away at their keyboards, hoping to get something – and the crankiness is beginning to set in.

McGee takes refuge at the vending machines, claiming a brief ten-minute snack break. He asks if anyone wants anything, but Tony and Ziva both shake their heads and McGee takes his snack break alone.

Tony sneaks a peek at his partner. Ziva is the same as ever – sitting up straight, posture prim and perfect, staring intently at her computer screen as she types. And maybe it's just because he's loopy from exhaustion, or he's thinking too hard, or he's taking a brief, unexpected turn for the melodramatic – but with a jolt, Tony realizes that nothing about Ziva is the same.

Abby's old pictures flash in his mind's eye. They've been on his mind all afternoon – the motion, the unexpected energy that even shone through stark, somber crime scene photos. Because the fact is, the Ziva sitting across from him right now, with long, tame, tea-colored hair and immaculate make-up, is not the girl in those pictures anymore. Not in the least.

She used to be wild. She had this outrageous do-me smirk on her lips, this physically palpable energy crackling from her as though she were about to burst into flame. She used to drive him crazy when she looked at him like that. She used to flirt openly, get up in his face and never leave him room to breathe, and that was the way things were. She reveled in being different, in being exotic.

Five years can do a lot to a person. Things change, people move on – it's inevitable. He himself is not the same person he was the day he met her either. Both of them have had to mature in the face of adversity, of circumstance, and that's fine, that's normal.

But mature doesn't really cover the way he feels when he looks at her now. It's as though some light has gone out, her fire has been slaked. She hasn't lost her looks, of course, but the easy swagger she'd carried herself with when she was a cannonball freshly fired from Mossad has been replaced by restraint, composure. Her raw sexuality is confined to a twinkle in her narrowed eyes; she's sorted out her English, so she doesn't mix up the words anymore and he doesn't have to correct her like he used to.

It used to be electric when they bantered – more electric than it is with EJ, who barely keeps him contentedly interested. But now it's like going through the motions with Ziva, because they dragged it out and let the energy dissipate and they grew up and it's not fun anymore. There's no way to move forward because the moment to do so has already passed them by and they never figured out how to take advantage of it. And now the whole thing is like this week of straight rain – gray and endless, no sparkle, no thrill of anticipation. He's only left with a vague, unresolved sort of curiosity that more strongly resembles a hollowed-out obligation past its expiration date.

Tony clears his throat loud enough to make Ziva glance once, briefly, in his direction; he catches her eye and he sees the way they narrow so predictably. And he can remember a time when this used to turn him on a little. But she turns her attention back to what she was doing and he's not turned on and her narrowed eyes are just another thing he knows about her, another trick that's old, that's fallen flat.

Which is funny, really, because five years ago, when he first met her, he would never have guessed she would be the kind of person who ever fell flat in anything.

* * *

Ziva is still suspiciously distant the next morning. Not only is she unusually early, she doesn't even bother with a decent 'hello' when Tony walks in; she just nods without looking up, a small flicker of a smile the only thing keeping her greeting out of the non-greeting category.

Tony half-ponders Ziva's underwhelming communication for a moment or two – but the elevator doors open with their familiar _ding! _and EJ walks into the office. Remembering their tryst in the shower, his cheeks go rosy and his heart climbs up his throat.

EJ catches Tony's eye over the partition between their two offices; he gives her a sheepish grin and she smirks slyly, her eyes alight with their little secret. A thrill of pleasure runs down his spine and he can't hide the goofy toothpaste-ad smile she inspires. Heat creeps up his neck from within his shirt collar. She turns away and he watches her sit down as if he's a hormonal schoolboy watching the pretty girl in the room.

He's still debating whether or not to ask her out to dinner tonight when Ziva looks up unexpectedly and catches sight of his goofy toothpaste-ad smile. He's too slow to disguise his lust; it's all over his face and she can see it all the way through him.

He scrambles to rearrange his features, but it's too late, far too late. She saw him. And she scrambles to rearrange her own features, but it's too late for her as well, because she's a little slower on the uptake today and he already saw the way her features iced over, all angles and harshness, like her face was cut from glass.

And if he didn't know better, he would say with great satisfaction that the flash of emotion on her face that he inspired was jealousy.

* * *

For the rest of the day, the chill from Ziva's desk is palpable – enough that McGee exchanges a look or two with Tony, wondering why she won't speak to Tony directly.

Her mood is nothing ostentatious, nothing particularly malicious or petty, but there is a definite lack of humor and friendliness in her that the people around her notice: something is on her mind, and though she won't say what it is, she makes it obvious that something is up nonetheless.

They have to conduct interviews today around town, but mercifully the rain has thinned out and the sky has settled for a harmless, watery gray tinge, like underwear washed too many times. But the air is humid as Tony cuts through it in pursuit of the door to the building where the victim worked.

It's like the eye of the storm – a brief reprieve before the chaos unfurls again. McGee mentions something about that as he peers up at the sky, probably trying to come up with safety provisions for his precious shoes. But Tony and Ziva are unconcerned; she stays at least seven steps away from Tony the whole afternoon, her demeanor professional and acceptably pleasant to everyone but him, and he never makes eye contact once.

* * *

McGee was right about the storm: the weepy, wilted sky from this morning has woken up with a vengeance tonight, and it's in full-on war mode, the rain coming straight down in a merciless torrent.

Tony races through puddles without noticing, splishsplash splishsplash, only minimally aware that he's getting his shoes all dirty and soggy by not taking care to walk on the dry patches. He would care more if he weren't so distracted – if it weren't so hard to chase down an angry Ziva who is as intent, if not more so, on stalking out in the storm as he is.

"Ziva!"

He yells her name into the din, and he's sure she heard him because suddenly she picks up the pace and she's already three more feet ahead of him, even though she's in heels and there's just as much rain in her eyes as there is in his. He has to break into a near run to catch up with her.

"Ziva!"

The fact of the matter was, he borrowed her stapler for precisely this purpose: he had been curious to know if she would react, if she would get gritty and intense and up in his face for disturbing the fragile order and peace in her world, voice controlled and eyes gleaming both playfully and murderously. He had been curious to know if she was still the slightest bit wild instead of dismissive and professional. He had considered stealing part of her lunch – Kate had always hated it when he did that – but he had only hatched his brilliant scheme after their lunch break, so there was no chance of doing that, unless he waited another day. Which, of course, he didn't have the patience for.

Anyway, he got the desired reaction – she snapped. Apparently, she still has some of that explosive gunpowder left in her yet.

"ZIVA!"

"_What?_"

She spits the word like a bullet from a gun, cold and metallic and a little desperate, stopping and turning around on her heel to face him. Instinctively, he stops where he stands, taking her in; her mouth is pursed angrily, defensively, features alive and feral. His eyes are just as severe, just as determined, but his lips are slack and they're getting splattered with incoming rain. It tastes vaguely metallic on his tongue.

And for several long, shapeless moments, they stand there like that in the rain, waiting for the other one to speak. Their chests heave up and down, up and down, breaths coming in and out at different paces but coming in and out the same way, just as painfully. Her hair is plastered to her head and his hair gel is probably all washed out now, and he's going a little numb from the cold, and her jacket is limp with moisture, and his socks are getting steadily drenched – but they stand there like that in the rain anyway. Stand there together, opposing each other but with eyes locked in, like everything they know depends on it.

She shivers slightly, almost imperceptibly, from cold, but he notices. Of course he notices. So he jerks his head to the side, to the parking garage, where his car is parked close by. He turns and walks slowly, deliberately, through the sheet of rain and towards his car. He doesn't have to turn around or listen through the commotion to know that she is following him.

The parking garage had been quieter, like the world and its storm had been put on mute; but when Tony unlocks his car and the two of them climb inside, it's practically silent, like the world and its storm don't exist at all. The space is small, almost claustrophobic – because all week she had a self-imposed restraining order between them and now she's up close, not hypothetical but real and breathing and thinking and feeling, same as him.

It takes him about a full minute of sitting there, warming up, slowing down his frantic breathing, before Tony is able to look Ziva in the eye again. And when he does, he finds that she's already looking at him, already probing him for something – because she's always been good at beating him to the punch-line, instinctively understanding the situation before he does.

Her irises are so dark – they're more black than brown, particularly in this light. They were this same black when he met her five years ago – they, at least, had not changed, and the thought comforts him a little. A little, but not enough.

Tony holds her gaze and considers his options. If this were one of his movies, there would be cameras all around them, getting the stark, rain-peppered close-ups and then zooming out to capture the tension and the distance in the limited space of the car. There would be profile shots, serious and poignant, and there would be a rising instrumental score – quiet at first, then building as the indecision became unbearable. And after a few seconds, he would lean in and he would probably kiss her, consummate this confusing, thousand-pound Thing they have between them, because love is what sells – love is what everyone wants and expects, just because he's an attractive male and she's an attractive female and they see each other everyday and have to watch each other's backs.

And it's tempting, it truly is. He's sitting here, in his car, alone with her at last; her lips are soft, pink, right there, ready to kiss; she's making eye contact and this is the most electrified they've been around each other in such a long time; and it's not like it's a secret that they're attracted to each other, because they are and they know it.

But this isn't a movie: this is two people who are cold and tired and upset and uncertain, who have the choice to walk away as much as they have the choice to come in close. This is reality, sworn slayer of the hypothetical and the infinitely possible; and in reality, the two of them work together, and Gibbs has a rule about inter-office dating, and anyway, she has a boyfriend. There is no room in their lives for each other.

Another split-second of waiting, and Tony sighs, lets himself be the first one to break.

"I did sleep with EJ," he admits, "but I only did it once. And I don't plan on doing it again."

Something softens around the corners of Ziva's eyes, and for a fleeting moment, she looks sadder than he's ever seen her. But then she blinks and purses her lips slightly and anchors her hand to his jaw. Her skin is cool and wet, same as his. And she runs her thumb along the curve of his lower lip, adding just enough pressure to make him tingle with fear and gut-twisting anticipation. He doesn't dare swallow or even breathe.

Her thumb stops at the corner of his mouth. She looks him squarely in the eye and she murmurs, "Please don't use my stapler again without permission."

* * *

For the rest of the next day, Friday, she doesn't speak to him. That evening, once they're done with work, she says good-bye to McGee, but Tony doesn't get so much as a glance backward. The rain persists when she leaves, and it's still going when he leaves twenty minutes afterwards.

Saturday, Tony keeps his phone nearby at all times. He pretends there's no good reason for it, he just wants to stay connected; but by the time evening falls, and the phone is still silent, he has to admit to himself that in his heart of hearts, he had hoped that she would call.

* * *

A/N: No, silly goose, of course I'd never leave you hanging like that! There is a part two to this tale, and it's coming up soon.

But in the mean time, feel free to mingle with that review button down there. It gets quite lonely sometimes.


	2. procrastinating only takes you so far

A/N: You remember that one time on NCIS, when Gibbs just got overwhelmed and tired of everything and took a hiatus? And then how someone he loved very much called him back and he remembered how much he loved his job and he came back? That's kind of how I feel right now. My life got complicated so I buried my head in the sand for awhile to get some peace and quiet – but after watching many NCIS reruns, I remembered how much I loved it and I wanted to try again. I can't promise what else I will or won't do in the future, but this story is one I wanted to finish.

I know the show has galloped along while I've been on hiatus, but I'm sticking with my original story. So, to recalibrate your timeline, here's what's happening: this takes place right after the Ziva-less weekend of last chapter – it's my alternate version of 8.17 onward. So, EJ and Tony just started 'dating,' Gibbs hasn't said anything yet, the team has not met Ray and Ziva hasn't broken up with him yet.

I'm a bit rusty, so I hope this works and that you like it. Cheers.

* * *

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out  
You left me in the dark  
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight  
In the shadow of your heart

I took the stars from our eyes, and then I made a map  
And knew that somehow I could find my way back  
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too  
So I stayed in the darkness with you

- Florence and the Machine, "Cosmic Love"

* * *

Monday morning, it's still raining.

The weatherman on Channel 5 was right this time. After a brief – albeit gray – reprieve over the weekend, the rain is back.

It's not quite so heavy this time but certainly present, pitter-pattering, pitter-pattering – on the roofs, on the windows, on the windshield of Tony's car when he drives in and on Tony's head when he flees into the entrance of the building. Pitter-pattering, pitter-pattering, like it has some right to be there. Like it's okay that it has ruined his shoes all week.

He runs into the building, thankfully with minimum rain on him, and rides the elevator into the office. His office; his world. The elevator doors open and now he is safe, able to enjoy the sight of the rainy scenery through his window without being a part of it.

Ziva and McGee are already at their desks. McGee is typing something – probably an email – and Ziva is checking her phone messages. Tony's customary morning grin is still plastered to his face, but he finds his stomach oddly unsettled as his eyes turn to his partner. He fights hard to ignore it.

"Morning, everyone!" he chirps, his buoyant bravado mostly intact as he dumps his things at his desk and settles into his chair.

"Morning, Tony," says McGee from his corner, looking up with a nod.

"Good morning," Ziva echoes, without looking up.

He notices that. Of course he does.

And it's not as though he awaits some big, cathartic release in the middle of this rainy Monday morning, but a slight reaction, some sign of recognition – something more than a cold 'good morning' without any eye contact – would have been nice.

But, fortunately, he is not the kind of person who likes to dwell on these things. His plastered grin only gets wider.

"How are you this fine day, Zee-vah?" he inquires.

She smirks, sparing him a glance this time. "Absolutely wonderful."

He is grateful for what he gets – a glance is better than nothing – but his eyes still have a worried crinkle in the corners as he returns his attention to his computer.

And she notices that. Of course she does. But, fortunately, she is not the kind of person who likes to dwell on these things either.

* * *

For the duration of the morning, Ziva pretends to sit back in her chair and focus upon the task at hand, all demure and innocent, but it's a complete lie. Her mind is a million miles away from this computer screen, floating somewhere in the clouds over her head.

It profoundly bothers her, what he is doing with EJ. Something about her makes Ziva's skin crawl; it's a visceral reaction she is having difficulty explaining. Something about the way her eyes are icy blue and remain cool when she smiles; the way her mouth is hard and pouty; the way she struts about the office, so assured of herself and her abilities. It's the kind of smug confidence that irks, that gets under your skin, like a particularly nasty mosquito bite.

The familiar instinct kicks up, battle-ready, whenever Ziva catches sight of EJ casually flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder. She has always been trained to protect her own, and he is her partner, someone she works closely with and cares about. Professionally – and, yes, personally – it makes perfect sense for her to see this danger, evaluate it, and ultimately get rid of it. She is all wrong for him; she must go.

And yet…he seems happy with her. It's been a while since he's had a steady girlfriend; maybe he just wants a feel-good fling while one is available. Maybe she's even kind of right for him; she has him smiling so sweetly whenever their eyes meet across the room, like something out of a bad romantic comedy.

And Ziva herself has a boyfriend right now, one who has inspired this same silly romanticism in her after a long time out of the dating game. In that context, Tony's little affair should not concern her quite so much. If things get out of hand, Gibbs can take care of it. And personally…well, he's a big boy after all. He is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

So she tries to focus back in on the work at hand, and she tries to convince herself that her mild worry is both friendly and unnecessary, but she fails on both counts – she misspells the name of the suspect whose records she is checking, making the computer beep angrily at her, because she is so busy hating the idea that he is attracted to her, _her _of all people.

She is all wrong for him. But so far, she seems to be the only one who thinks so.

* * *

Tony is supposed to be taking the elevator down to the fourth floor in order to grab coffee for the team, because the fourth floor has the best coffee and Gibbs would probably do unspeakable things to them if they went out for a Starbucks run in the middle of a frustrating case. He had actually volunteered to do the job because being within ten feet of Ziva was awkward and he fancied a break from her and her eerie silence.

What he had not counted on, however, was EJ Barrett catching his eye and slipping neatly into the elevator with him, right as the doors close. He finds himself pleased to have a moment alone with her. The moment the elevator begins to move, he hits the Emergency Stop switch. The walls around them turns an electric blue.

"Morning, Agent Barrett," Tony remarks, leaning against the side of the elevator and appreciatively eyeing up the fairly tight-fitted outfit she has donned today. "How are you?"

"Great," says EJ, equally confident, smirking slightly, leaning up against the other side of the elevator with the same roaming, appreciative eyes. "And you?"

"Better than I was a minute ago."

Her smirk widens. Her rather full, wide mouth gets attractively puckered and pouty as she comes a little closer.

"So…are you free tonight?" she asks. "We could have dinner at my place, if you want. Or yours. Doesn't matter."

He finds that he is rather impressed with her ability to get point-blank into the matter at hand. No games, no awkward small-talk, none of that. Just an invitation to dinner, plain and simple. Her straight-forwardness is just another thing he appreciates about her.

"Sure," says Tony. "My place. You haven't visited yet."

Her eyes flash. "Sounds great. Should I bring wine?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On how drunk you want to get."

EJ tilts her head back and laughs. The sound fills up the tiny elevator. Tony isn't quite sure where that line came from, but it seems to have gone over well and he smiles all big and goofy right along with her. The blue light strikes her bones at a certain angle and makes her look almost hollow.

"Okay," she says. "How about…eight?"

"I hope so. Depends on how much progress we make on the case tonight. But I'll get Ziva and McGee to cover for me if I need to."

"Text me," says EJ.

"I will," Tony replies, and means it.

EJ's eyes flash again, and one side of her mouth is curled up in a satisfied smile. Tony hits the Emergency Stop switch again and lets the elevator take him to the fourth floor. He leaves the elevator – but not without glancing back at EJ standing there, watching him. Just the once, before he turns around again.

* * *

Tony returns back with the coffees – and as surely as she knows it's going to keep raining today, that they will be working late tonight, Ziva can tell something is off.

Not wrong, per se. But certainly off. About Tony.

He struts into the bull-pen with the coffees about fifteen minutes later – and although fifteen minutes is a perfectly reasonable amount of time to get three coffees, she suspects that getting coffee is not the only thing Tony did on the job.

She has known Tony for years; she knows all his tells. She can sense when he's giddy, on-edge, about something – and as they get back to work, he is twitchy and self-satisfied and a little bit pink in the cheeks.

He only ever gets like that when he has a really hot date.

She figures that must be it, but it strikes her as strange that Tony managed to get a date on the way to the fourth floor. If he was on a Starbucks run, an impromptu date would make more sense. But this was fifteen minutes inside the NCIS building. And besides, if he did get a hot date, it would have been the first thing he mentioned upon arriving back. It doesn't make any sense.

Ziva looks up once – just once – to see if she can glean any clues from Tony's expression; but, to her surprise, his focused, dream-like stare at EJ's station completely gives him away. And EJ's returning stare completely gives the whole story away. It's as though they think their office floor is stupid, as though they couldn't figure it out and see all the way through them. As though they think that Gibbs won't swoop in out of nowhere and figure it out. As though she herself is stupid and won't figure it out either.

Obviously, they shared an elevator and made a date while Tony went to go get coffee. Likely for tonight, by the way Tony can't seem to stop unconsciously tapping his foot. And they are probably going to have sex – even though Tony had told her he didn't intend to do it with her again.

She will have to get the coffee herself next time.

Ziva clears her throat and catches Tony's eye. Sudden fear ignites in his irises. She shoots him one look – she's only ever needed one – and then she gets back to work.

His stomach begins to skip rope with his intestines, and they all get tangled together in a heap inside his toes on the second jump.

* * *

Later that evening, the case remains at a standstill. Gibbs is spending increasing amounts of time in the Director's office and in MTAC. Tony smells another late night – but he is unwilling to cancel on EJ. He figures a break would be useful. His brain currently feels like a soggy heavy sponge in desperate need of wringing out; no productive work can be done when he feels like that. The date is a good idea.

He clears his throat loud enough that Ziva and McGee look up.

"All right, well, I have an appointment tonight and I'm going to need to head out," Tony announces. "Can you cover for me if boss man comes down?"

"What appointment?" asks McGee, brow furrowed in confusion.

"A personal one," Tony replies.

"Like what?"

"Like it's none of your business, McNosy."

McGee snorts. "Because you are all about respecting people's boundaries, Tony."

"Look, all you need to know is that I need to leave," says Tony. "Can you cover me?"

"Depends on why you need to leave."

Tony whirls around to face Ziva, who is leaning back in her chair a little, appraising him with those dark dark eyes of hers. Her lips are slightly parted, revealing a sliver of the darkness behind them.

"I have to meet someone," he says.

"I figured as much when you said 'appointment.'" She leans forward now, elbows resting on her desk. "Who are you meeting?"

He says nothing. Her eyes glitter, her face more alive than it has been all day.

"Is it a woman?" she asks slyly.

Trying to fight back the sudden realization that this conversation is the longest one he's had with his partner since Friday night, Tony clears his throat again.

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Can you cover for me?"

Suddenly, Ziva gasps all big and her eyes widen like a cartoon character on the verge of an epiphany.

"Is it a _date_?"

She obviously takes great joy in toying with him.

He exhales slowly, determined not to let his face give anything more away, as McGee's eyebrows rise with interest.

"Can you cover for me?" he asks again, in what he hopes is a very cool, even tone.

Ziva looks at him the way she does when she apprehends a criminal that has been trying to pull a fast one on her: her eyes twinkle in a manner consistent with imminent danger.

"Sure," she says, so coolly, so evenly. "I will cover for you."

McGee's head whips around to face her, his expressive eyebrows flashing his confusion like a bold-font bulletin. Even Tony looks a bit startled.

"Okay," he says. "Thanks."

"No problem," she says, her eyes never leaving his. "Enjoy your _date_."

His gaze lingers on her for a moment, hesitant on whether to banter back or keep his silence – but he chooses the latter. Without looking at McGee, Tony nods, grabs his things, and heads for the elevator.

Ziva never looks up once.

* * *

Tuesday morning, Tony is already in the office when Ziva arrives at eight o'clock. He is finishing up a phone call as she sets her things down at her desk, her nose wrinkled in confusion as she beholds the sight of him working.

"Okay. Yeah, sounds good. Thanks," he tells the phone, beaming, as he sets it down.

"Why are you in so early?" asks Ziva. In her befuddlement, she has decided to speak to him normally for now.

"The theory came to me in a dream," says Tony in faux-mystical tones. "I woke up and I knew I had to check it out. And so far, I think I'm on to something."

She arches an eyebrow. "Care to share?"

"All in good time, grasshopper," he replies solemnly, putting his hands together prayer-like and giving her a shallow bow.

She merely rolls her eyes, plopping down into her chair and turning on her computer. For a moment, Tony thinks that this will be the end of the friendly banter, but then Ziva surprises him by inquiring, without looking up, "So…how was your date last night?"

"Fine," he says slowly, cautiously, sitting at his chair as well and peering over his computer screen at her.

"Where did you go?" Her tone is light, but he knows her too well not to detect the edge behind the words.

"A restaurant."

"A good one?"

"Yes."

"What about afterwards?"

"Coffee at my place."

"Just coffee?"

"Just coffee."

She clicks her tongue in a way he can't place. "Sounds like fun," she says.

He pauses.

"Thanks for covering me last night."

Only now does she look over her computer screen and catch his eye, a wide, sickly-sweet smile on her face.

"Don't mention it."

And though she goes back to what she was doing without anything more to say on the subject, her smile now more of a smirk, Tony decides to heed her word.

* * *

The week passes humid and gray. Every morning, Channel 5 reports how this seasonal record, that seasonal record, has been topped. It drizzles every few hours or so for a little while, then fades out, only to return again and again. The air is heavy and muggy, hot like the depths of July even though it's only April – it can only mean that one hell of a thunderstorm is approaching. Then maybe, just maybe, this strange wet streak will lift itself from the DC area and go terrorize another city, another populace.

The office, meanwhile, braves the rain and trudges on as usual. The current case is solved; another replaces it. Ziva's mood settles into polite courtesy, despite Tony's frequent glances at EJ's office space; EJ comes over to Tony's place twice more to watch movies – and the second time, she brings wine and stays the night in his bed.

It's been a long time since Tony has dated anyone steadily this way. Girls have come and gone, some sticking around longer than others, but there was little chemistry, no real reason to stay with any of them besides a mild aversion to spending every night alone. EJ has proven herself to be a pleasant break in the chain: she is not a difficult person to spend time with. She is the one who navigates the relationship in her very capable hands, and she is straight-forward. Funny. Flirty. Easy to talk to, and easy to listen to. He doesn't have to try so hard with her and it's nice, not having to guess what she's thinking or plan dates at nice restaurants to keep her interested. And it doesn't hurt that the sex is good.

Ziva seems to have figured out what's going on, but McGee, Abby and Gibbs are safely out of the loop. Eventually, they will find out, and Gibbs will most likely disapprove, but at least for a few days or weeks, he has a free pass to try out this thing blossoming between him and EJ. After his bad luck in the past couple of years, she is an oasis after too much sun beating down on the back of his neck.

And this time, he wants to indulge, plain and simple. A blank slate has unrolled before him like a red carpet, containing no history and no promises, and it's just too good to pass up.

So he won't.

* * *

Late Friday night, when most of the lights on their floor have been turned off and Team Gibbs is the only one still sitting around at their desks, yawning, Tony excuses himself and walks out down the hall. Eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness, Ziva pounces on the opportunity – stands up, tells McGee she'll be right back, and follows a few feet behind her partner.

He doesn't hear her silent footsteps as he makes his way towards the men's room – so it is a slight shock when he closes the bathroom door and it soon opens again, revealing not an innocent male NCIS employee but Ziva, with a strange sense of purpose lingering in the hard set of her jaw. Tony's gaze meets hers and he arches a surprised eyebrow.

He considers saying something, anything – maybe asking her what the hell she's doing in here – but he chooses instead to remain quiet. She closes the door behind her, locking it with a soft _click_, and then turns back around to face him. He is standing by the urinal, but has made no move to use it, choosing instead to watch her intently.

The men's room has become something of a cliché between them, the place where all important conversations must be had – but all things considered, it's _their _cliché and it's fitting and familiar and right that she is in here with him tonight. These past couple of weeks have been so awkward, so disconcerting, that even this, the strangest of their traditions, is refreshing, full of relief.

She crosses the tiled floor and hoists herself up to sit on the open space between the two sinks. Her legs dangle into the emptiness beneath the counter. Though the room is small and they are the only two in it, she fixes her stare on the floor, her hands loose, resting on her thighs.

"So…to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" Tony asks her as lightly as he can muster, leaning against the wall beside the counter.

She sighs, still not looking at him. "I don't know."

"Well, you're here for a reason," he says, "so there has to be _some_thing."

And there _is_ something. Of course there is. But the problem is that Ziva doesn't know what it is – only that it exists and it is weighing down her head like an anchor stubbornly stuck in the sand and she has no idea what to do about it. The right moment has kindly presented itself – they are alone, and the world is silent save for the air conditioning humming in the ceiling – but she finds that though she is here, there are no words available to her. They are all lurking somewhere within the folds of her intestines, currently unreachable. So she is stuck – no place to go from here.

And Tony can see it in her, see it clear as day because it is the same for him. He steps away from the wall and goes to the sink, right beside her, pressing the heels of his hands into the lip of the porcelain sink, so close to her physically but lightyears away in every other way. His breaths are short and heavy, and she can smell his smell, and he can see her back and her toffee-brown hair reflected in the slightly dirty mirror.

There are things to say, and yes, this is an ideal occasion to say them – but at the same time, it's not, because once the words start flowing, they could become dangerous, and they fear danger. Tonight is different from most nights – he has not made an artless joke, she has not fled at top speed – but still, there is no time and no energy for something that will endanger the unsettled, albeit comfortable, balance between them.

What they need is a catalyst – something to come between them and blow them out of their comfort zones. The timing never works out – either she has a boyfriend, or he has a girlfriend, or one of them is damaged goods, unfit to be close to anyone – but this time, the timing simply _must _work. Too much is hanging over their heads, this close to breaking, and now a new direction must be taken. Now, something must change, someone has to do something different.

So Tony takes a deep breath and finally says, honestly, soberly, "This isn't working."

Ziva purses her lips. "I know," she says.

"So what are we going to do about it?"

He is staring right at her – his eyes are practically boring holes into the side of her head – and yet, it still takes her several seconds to slowly turn her head towards him, unwillingly lock into his gaze.

And it bothers him, that it takes her so long – because the Ziva he used to know, she wasn't like this, so indecisive and hesitant, tip-toeing around him as though he was about to detonate and splatter her with brain goo. The old Ziva would have had a quick answer to his question, would have mischievously laughed and flirted outrageously with him herself, even as she teased him about EJ. In fact, she would probably have made him forget all about EJ, because she had a way of commanding all of his attention, every single bit of it, with the things she did, the light touch with which she did them.

And now Tony wants to shake her, scream at her: _You used to be wild. You used to get all up in my face and say baffling things and mess up your English. Your hair used to be dark and curly instead of light and straight. Where did that girl go? Where did _you _go?_

The air is so heavy and so silent that he could explode. Ziva's black eyes – the ones that had first looked him up and down years ago in this same building – are both familiar and not familiar. The woman sitting beside him on the counter seems so much older up close than the one his mind conjures up when his thoughts stray towards her. She is a little more lined around the eyes, around the mouth; her jaw is a little softer. She might as well be somebody else. He almost doesn't know what to do with her. Everything they know seems to hang in the balance of this maddening quiet – in who breaks it, and how.

Then—

"Are you still mad at me for taking your stapler last week?"

Pause. A single drop of water slips from the edge of the faucet and tumbles to its death.

"No," she says. It is a deliberate, decisive syllable.

So he counters with two of his own – "Okay."

She says nothing; just nods slightly, slides off the counter, pushes the door open and walks right out without looking back.

Frustrated, he runs a hand through his hair and follows suit. When he arrives back at his desk, she is already working, as though nothing has happened. The echo of her rhythmic keyboard tapping bounces around his ear awhile, unwilling to leave.

And he has to wonder – how is it that through all these years, they have talked and acted and looked and talked some more, and yet failed to master being amicable coworkers? Proper friends?

* * *

The weekend transitions smoothly into Monday, thanks to the difficult case and Gibbs's unspoken request to stay behind and get the work done – and Monday evening brings with it the promised thunderstorm from the past week or so.

It explodes through the sky, rattles the windows of NCIS, unleashes its unrestrained torrent over the city and whoever else happens to be in its path. Thunder and lightning cackle and crackle; rain floods the streets and blankets the world; the clouds are iron gray and unforgiving. Channel 5 is, at this time, unsure how long the storm will last. The hope is that it will blow over by tonight – though seeing it now, venomous at being so long restrained, it is difficult to imagine it ever ending.

The storm makes it impossible for anyone to leave the building and conduct business as usual, so the team is stuck solving the case from their desks, using their computers and phones and praying that the storm doesn't wipe out the power or cause an electrical surge.

And maybe it is today's violent downpour, or the long hours he has put in this week, or the fact that EJ has recently been too busy to come over, or just that he has been cooped up and restive a little too long – but Tony feels a little reckless tonight. All through the weekend and this afternoon, Tony has become increasingly aware that regardless of his satisfaction-based relationship with EJ, everything's all wrong with Ziva right now and he needs to do something about it. And he needs to do it now.

When Gibbs is called up to Vance's office and McGee is called down to Abby's lab and Tony and Ziva are alone, Tony stands up, holds himself up to his full height, marches over to Ziva's desk and snatches her stapler from the corner of it.

Ziva, who had been attempting to make a call, hangs up the phone and stares up at Tony, would-be serene and sarcastic.

"Yes, Tony?" she asks, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.

"I have your stapler," he announces.

"You do," she confirms.

"I don't intend to give it back," he tells her.

"No?"

"Nope." He shakes his head to emphasize the point. "It's _my _stapler now."

"Well, if that's all…"

"What are you going to do about it, Zee-vah?" Tony inquires, dangling the stapler over her head.

"If the stapler really means so much to you, Tony, by all means, keep it," she says.

"So you're going to let me get away with taking your stuff?" Tony's eyes widen with surprise. "What, does that mean I can take anything I want? What about your Post-Its? Will you let me keep the Post-Its too?" He grabs the stack closest to him and begins flipping through the little pad, waving it in front of her face.

For a moment, a flash of anger passes over Ziva's face – the kind of raw, touchy anger that compelled her to throw knives at people who happened to get too close. But as quickly as it comes, it goes, and she appraises him coolly, up and down, up and down.

"What exactly are you trying to prove, Tony?" she inquires.

"Nothing at all." He beams at her, maintaining his grip on the stapler. "Except that I can now steal your stuff whenever I want."

She rises to her feet and steps in front of her desk, but Tony makes a break for the elevator – fortunately, it has just opened to let two agents out on their floor, so he slips inside and presses the button for the top floor. But, of course, Ziva is just as quick – she, too, manages to slip inside just as the doors close. The moment the elevator begins going up as commanded, Tony hits the emergency switch, bathing the tiny space with ghostly blue light.

After so many hours a day keeping a considerable distance from her, it is suddenly strange to be standing in this close proximity to her, in this cramped elevator, still holding her stapler. He can see every detail of her pretty face, feel every one of her breaths on his neck. She is staring him down with glinting black eyes, dark as tunnels – but it's not enough to scare him anymore. He holds his cool.

"What is your problem?" she hisses.

"I don't know."

"So what are we doing here? Why do you want my stapler so badly? This is the second time you have stolen it!"

"Are you mad at me?"

"Yes!"

And she looks it, her eyes narrowed down to slits, her jaw firmly set in frustration, her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Yet, somehow, it's still not enough for him.

"Why are you mad at me?" he asks her.

"Because you keep stealing my stapler," she retorts. "It is immature and annoying."

"Yeah, okay," he says. "Any other reason?"

"What other reason would I have?"

"I don't know, Ziva. You tell me."

Her eyes flash rather dangerously. "I don't have any other reasons."

"Well, forgive me for noticing, but I think you do," he tells her, all low and tight and gravelly. "So I'd recommend that you just tell me now and get it out of your system."

She bites down hard on her lower lip then, crossing her arms and staring him down. It's an expression he knows well – one that means she's all hot and bothered and will fight to kill – and he tries to conjure up that old fear of her and her assassin instincts, but he finds that the uncontrollable ninja who used to inspire terror and a gritty sort of glamour disappeared long ago, and left behind Ziva, just Ziva – his partner, a fellow NCIS agent, an American citizen with blow-dried hair, who still has the training and the instincts to kill but who has learned to restrain herself. Her anger has become a controlled simmer rather than fierce bubbling splashes; and he, he is not so easily intimidated by her anymore. Their relationship has changed. He no longer wants to flee from her when she becomes difficult to handle.

Instead, he sets his own jaw in determination, and tells her, "Whatever it is that you need to do, _do it_."

And that's all she needed – at long last, Ziva lets the fire licking her insides take the reigns, her fist lashes out, and she clocks him hard, square on the nose. He falls backward to the floor, hits the railing on the way down; he drops the stapler beside him, his hand flying to his face, and she sees the blood beginning to pool around his fingers. He appears astonished – and, for once, her mask falls and so does she.

"Is that what you wanted?" she demands, a mixture of fear and bravado.

"Getting warmer."

He grabs the railing and staggers to his feet, still rubbing his bloody nose. The maroon is dark, almost purplish, in the blue light of the stopped elevator. He breathes hard, eyeing her in a way she cannot place.

And then, before she can even register what happened, he gives her a tight slap on the face, leaving bloody fingerprints on her cheek.

Stunned, she gives him one back; the sound rings like a gunshot in this enclosed space. Undeterred, he gives her another. It is so childish and absurd and unlike them that she gives him two, one on each cheek.

And he fully intends to give her yet another, keep the game going, but when his hand reaches her face, it remains anchored there, cupping her face in his red-streaked palm and bringing her into him – their breath mingles, his nose is about an inch from hers, and they are so close, far too close, with no personal space, no time to even think. It is the closest he has been to her in far too long.

And if this were one of his movies, he would take the big risk. He would forget the world and the rules and both of their significant others, and he would close the distance between them and kiss her. The cameras would zoom in slowly from the front of the elevator in towards them, getting their profiles, the two halves facing each other, almost whole. The score would be quiet, intimate, played mostly by strings; the strange blue lighting would be bolstered by a couple of bright lights over their heads; their mouths would meet and the lens would focus in on the way every part of them was touching, the way his lips melted into hers, the way his hand would tangle in her hair.

It would be a romantic shot, it really would be. And as their kiss grew more self-assured, more passionate, the score would swell in triumph and the movie would end there, because to end on the declaration of love is perfect. It promises sweet, hard-won happiness and the audience can leave with their hearts warm, their smiles soft and satisfied.

But this is not one of his movies: it doesn't work out quite so cleanly or romantically. Tony holds Ziva's face in his hands and she doesn't wriggle away; instead, she closes her eyes in surrender and he swoops in for the kiss. It does not even require thought – it is simply the right thing to do, so he does it. The elevator is still silent, unmoving; the office is still bustling with people working; the storm is still raging outside – technically, nothing has changed, life continues onward. Yet, in this elevator, everything has changed. Their world, at least, will never be the same again.

Unlike the last time they kissed, when it was a show and no one expected anything, she is hungry, fervent, even a little desperate, clutching at his hair and pressing her body against his, pushing him up against the elevator wall. The railing cuts into the small of his back, and he is definitely going to feel it tomorrow – but for now, it's irrelevant. It's just touch and want and feel and take, each kiss melting into the next one, and the next one. The already-small elevator shrinks down to just the two of them – the intimacy of each breath taken together, the way they are holding each other so close that for a second it is as though physics has flown away and their skin has melted off and they really have become one person.

But, as quickly as the kiss had come about, it ends. Almost simultaneously, they come back to their senses and pull away, breathing hard and blinking fast. He doesn't meet her eye, and she doesn't attempt to meet his; she just steps back and leans against the opposite wall, as far away from him as she can get in this damn elevator. He picks up the stapler from the floor and leans against the wall as well.

Neither of them says anything for several seconds. Ziva glances up just once at Tony, trying to gauge how exactly he feels about what they just did, and she finds that he is fumbling through his pockets for Kleenex. His nose is bleeding freely – some of the blood has smeared on the bridge of his nose and slightly beyond, because he kissed her – and he is pinching it with his free hand to stem the flow a little.

At last, he finds Kleenex and holds it to his nose. His gaze travels up to meet hers, and she is too slow – or, perhaps, unwilling – to look elsewhere. And, to her surprise, he looks grimly satisfied.

Ziva tries to decipher what exactly this means, but at this point, Tony straightens up and flicks the emergency switch. It turns off and the elevator starts going upward again. He presses the button for their floor and the two of them wait as it goes to the top of the building and then comes back down. The ride is an entirely noiseless one, save for the movement of the elevator up the shaft.

When they arrive back to their floor and the doors ping open, Ziva catches one last look at Tony. A slight smirk playing on the corner of his mouth, he reaches out and screws up the front of her perfect coif. She is too astonished to even slap his hand away, but he appears content.

The doors open at their floor. McGee is back from the lab, sitting at his desk and furiously typing something. Together, Tony and Ziva step out of the elevator and walk towards their desks, trying very hard to feign normalcy.

McGee looks up with the intention of greeting the rest of his team, but he is absolutely astounded to see that Tony has a bloody tissue on his nose, that there are smears of blood on his cheeks and hands, that Ziva too has streaks of blood near her nose, red fingerprints on her jaw. To complete this vision of bizarreness, Tony is tightly gripping the black stapler that is usually on Ziva's desk in his right hand. McGee's eyebrows fly up his forehead, in danger of getting lost in his hairline.

"Tony, Ziva, what the hell happened to you guys?" he demands, standing up to get a better look at them. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, Tim, I'm fine," says Tony, regaining some of his swagger now that he has been confronted with the probie's presence.

"Are you sure? That looks pretty nasty," says McGee.

"I'll live," says Tony indifferently. "I just need to find a First Aid kit. And have a very long, and very cold, shower. Cover for me if the boss-man shows up." Still pinching his nose, he sets off down the hall without looking back, his thoughts racing.

She's not the same person she was five years ago when he met her, and he knows it. Yet tonight, a glimpse of that person – the wild one, the crazy one – has come into view and he remembers now the way he loved her, yeah, loved her, not just that way but every way. And maybe she isn't that insane meteor crash-landing into his team like before, but he finds that really, his feelings haven't changed.

He still wants to know what she's thinking, what she's doing. And even though he is with EJ, who is smart and charming and pretty – on paper, the perfect girlfriend for someone like him – he finds himself coming back to her, again and again. And even though she is with Ray, who is probably smart and charming and good-looking – on paper, the perfect boyfriend for someone like her – he finds that her thoughts come right back to him too.

It's different, yes. The sparks have been smaller and more subdued of late, muffled by rain and uncertainty; the situation has gotten so murky and complicated beneath the laughing-and-teasing veneer. But the catalyst they needed to take them somewhere else has already implanted itself into the both of them – in the way they have changed, the way he finally noticed it – and now events and emotions beyond their control have been set into motion, and there's no going back.

Different or otherwise, it's always her. Always. And even now, he is so muddled, so unsure of how he feels about that.

Tony grabs a towel and heads to the showers, to wash off the blood and the sweat and the confusion, his head both clearer and foggier than when he left the elevator. And just beyond the brick and concrete of these walls, the stormy rain persists, gray and all-consuming, the life-giving sobs of the skies trying and trying to make the dying wild grasses flourish.

* * *

A/N: So…yeah, there was that. The final version ended up being slightly psycho, in my opinion, but since it's about the fact that Tony thinks Ziva has lost her touch a little, I suppose I can forgive the psycho-ness. I just hoped it worked out okay for you guys – that it was psycho in a good way as you read through it. Like I said, I've been rusty.

And, you know, technically, I could do a third chapter with the way I ended this – you'll notice that not much is truly resolved – but my track record with sequels isn't great. So I don't know. It really just depends on your responses, whether you like this and want me to continue, or if you're happy with the way this ended. Let me know and I'll see if I can work something out either way.


	3. resolutions are for chumps

A/N: So I _did_ come up with the third and final part! Let us all take a moment to marvel, because I don't think of any of us expected such a thing from me.

The main problem I had with writing this is that I couldn't think of a resolution that was both satisfying and in-character. It's a pretty messy love-square – and yeah, the show did pretty well with resolving it, but I wanted to do something different, something more my style that both contradicts and goes along with the show's direction. For a long time, my muse and I weren't sure what direction to take.

Ultimately, though, we came up with this and we hope you like it.

* * *

There is love in your body but you can't get it out  
It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth  
Sticks to your tongue and shows on your face  
That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste

Darling heart, I've loved you from the start

But that's no excuse for the state I'm in

There is love in our bodies and it holds us together  
But pulls us apart when we're holding each other  
We all want something to hold in the night  
We don't care if it hurts or we're holding too tight

- Florence & the Machine, "Hardest of Hearts"

* * *

The cloudless Tuesday sky lights up a thin, weepy gray. Monday's apocalyptic thunderstorm finally broke and gave way some time around two in the morning, and the wreckage is now visible in the uncertain sunlight of morning – the flooded streets and parks, the surreally vivid greenery, the air's heavy coolness that turns breath to vapor even though it's April.

Whistling softly under his breath, Tony crosses through the chill of the morning to get into the NCIS building. It's still pretty early – only six AM – but the events of the previous evening had rendered him sleepless all through the stormy night, and now he figures that his desk is as good a place as any to fret, to drown in his anxiety. He yawns richly and then takes a sip of his coffee as he steps into the elevator.

He is grateful for the extra sugar he ordered; he has a feeling he is going to need it today.

* * *

Tony has barely sat down and booted up his computer when the ding of the elevator dents the silence of the office – he looks up, and to his astonishment, there is Ziva, walking out of the elevator, cool as anything. His expression never changes, but his heart goes cold and skips a beat and dives into his intestines with fright. A lump rises in his throat and refuses to leave.

His eyes follow her progress from elevator to desk. She doesn't look any different than usual; it's the same coat, the same make-up and shoes and neat ponytail, that she wears all the time. Outwardly, she appears serene, barely bothered, as she dumps her things on her desk and suddenly meets his eye, smiling all casual and pleasant.

"Good morning, Tony," she says.

"Morning, Ziva."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"Good."

He pauses, his mouth tight and hard for just a fraction of a second.

"That was some storm last night," he says.

"I know. It kept rattling my windows."

"Mine too."

"Well, at the very least, we are not supposed to get any more rain for the rest of this week."

"Really?"

"Yes. I was watching the weather report on Channel 5."

"Huh."

She smiles briefly, and then turns her attention to checking her phone messages. To look at her, it would seem as if this was a normal nine o'clock in the morning at the office, nothing weird or out-of-the-ordinary going on. She's an excellent actress, he'll give her that.

But the thing is, she can't fool him – it's six forty-three AM and no one shows up this early to work unless they are like him, trying to stay away from the oppressive quiet of home, that leaves too much space for thoughts to wander to dangerous places.

* * *

The morning seems to stretch itself out upon four years before the team finally ambles in, mildly curious to find the two agents settled at their desks already – and as Tony watches her smile at them, say good morning with that same nonchalance she used to greet him, it is evident to him that there are only two options here: they can either move on and pretend that yesterday never happened, or they can confront each other and talk about it.

But of course, they choose the former option – because while there are technically two options available, there is only one that either of them feels at all comfortable doing.

So, as if in a cunning waltz, she takes the lead and sashays the two of them through the rest of the day.

* * *

In the evening, while the team is busy following up leads and forming alternate theories about their case, Tony decides to take a quick bathroom break, excusing himself from the bull-pen and heading down the hall.

Just as he steps inside the men's room and lets the door close, however, he hears the hinges creak, hears a second set of footsteps slipping inside as well. For one wild moment, he thinks it's Ziva, returning to their favorite place to talk after all – but when he turns around, all he sees is EJ. He is unsure whether he is relieved or disappointed, but the heat in his chest cools considerably at the sight of her. He turns on his big movie-star smile, eyeing her up and down the way he knows she likes it.

"Did anyone ever tell you that this was the _men's _room?" he asks her.

EJ smirks. "I know, but I saw you getting up and I wanted a quiet – private – place to talk."

He had been afraid of this. "Okay, talk," he tells her, light and casual, though a part of him still finds it strange, even a little wrong, that he's having an important conversation in here with someone besides Ziva.

EJ takes a deep, deliberate breath – and, without missing a beat, asks, "What's up with you, Tony? You seem…distracted."

He blinks with confusion and also a little dread; he should have expected this. He should have expected that she would not only notice his distance, but call him out on it point-blank when she got a moment to corner him.

"How so?" he asks would-be-innocently.

She sighs. "Well, for one thing, you never catch my eye in the office anymore. It's not a coincidence, either – I can _see _you turning so you avoid me. And, for another thing, I'm always the one making our plans."

He shoots her a quizzical look, to which she waves her hand impatiently and says, "I mean, it's not like I mind doing that, but it would be nice if you made plans for us too – you know, for a change."

For several seconds, neither of them says anything. The silence is awkward, as their appraising eyes meet and consider each other.

Then—

"I'm a little distracted right now," Tony concedes. "I don't think it's a good idea for us to keep seeing each other."

He expects her to be slightly hurt, disappointed – something – but in fact, her expression remains mild, never changes.

"Am I allowed to ask how come?" she asks.

"You could," he says, "but I can't guarantee an answer."

"Why not?"

"It's complicated."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She pauses, appearing to weigh the words on her tongue before she says them.

Finally, she asks, "Is it your boss?"

Tony tries to imagine Gibbs's face upon finding out that his senior field agent was sleeping with the pouting blonde girl across the office, whom he already seemed to distrust.

"Partially."

EJ smirks. "You afraid he's going to find out about us and bust your ass?"

"Kind of."

Her smirk takes on a note of rebellion. "I'm not afraid of him. You shouldn't be either."

He finds he's smirking too. "You don't know my boss."

"I've been told I'm an exceptional people-reader."

Now he's smiling for real. "Leroy Jethro Gibbs has eluded the best of people-readers for as long as he's been alive."

She clicks her tongue. "Fine. Okay. I get it." Her deeply blue eyes suddenly meet his, catching the light in a way that makes them almost unreal for a second. "I guess it's over, then."

"Yeah," he says, as gently as he can muster. "I guess so."

"Too bad. I really liked you."

"I never said I didn't like you."

"Not enough to stay with me."

"We could still be friends."

She arches an eyebrow. "You don't honestly believe that, do you?"

He says nothing; she smirks again. "Didn't think so."

There is still no visible ache or disappointment in her as she turns to leave, the clack-clacking of her shoes echoing off the bathroom walls, so Tony thinks this is the end of it. His heart beating just a little faster than normal, he steps back, thinking he might actually do what he came in here to do, when EJ unexpectedly adds, almost like an afterthought, "Good luck with her."

"With who?"

She stands at the door, her hand on the handle, prepared to leave; she turns her head to look at him over her shoulder, her face indecipherable as her smirk widens.

"Whoever it is that you're dumping me for," she says.

Satisfied with the look of befuddlement and a touch of guilt on his face, she opens the door and walks out without glancing back again.

And he just stands there and wonders where on Earth she got _that _from.

* * *

Walking back to his desk after several minutes of washing his face and running his hands under the warmth of the dryer and organizing his thoughts, Tony finds that he is only faintly sorry for breaking it off with EJ.

He doesn't like having to let people down, and he really did enjoy the thing he had with her for what it was, but it just didn't feel right with her long-term, not really. She was meant to be temporary and her time expired faster than either of them expected it to. That was the fact of the matter; it was nothing personal. She will, no doubt, move on very quickly and effortlessly from this.

But as he settles down at his desk again, goes back to the work at hand, he also finds that he would rather not think about her parting words and the way they are currently twirling and shredding his guts into confetti.

* * *

Through the rest of Tuesday and Wednesday, Ziva becomes increasingly and acutely aware that the current of the office has changed.

It takes a few hours to put her finger on it, but when she does it's so obvious that she wonders how it took so long to figure it out: the constant eye-sex between Tony and EJ that usually happens somewhere above her head has recently ceased. Tony's demeanor has not changed much visibly – and neither has EJ's – but her instincts are tingling and her instincts are very seldom wrong.

For a moment, her reckless side wonders if she dares to ask him about it, but her rational side immediately decides against it – the balance between them has been taut and fragile of late, and it is just better to let it go, leave the matter alone. She knows, and that's all she needs at present.

But she can't pretend she isn't the slightest bit grimly satisfied that Tony is no longer with EJ – because EJ was all wrong, and Ziva had always known it, and now Tony finally knows it too.

* * *

Late that evening, as the case goes nowhere and it seems there is no chance of going home before midnight, Ziva's phone buzzes. The caller ID says it's Ray calling. Pleased, she excuses herself from her desk and heads to the mildly private spot by the staircase leading upstairs to take the call. It's been several days since she last heard from him.

"Hello, Ziva," he says, all amiable and cheerful. "Have I caught you at a bad time?"

"No, no, it's not a bad time," she says.

"I'm sorry I haven't called lately," he tells her. "Work has been crazy. That's no excuse, of course, but it's true."

"What have you been doing?"

"It's classified."

"Of course."

"What about you? What have you been up to?"

"The same. Working. Where are you right now?"

"Spain. On business, of course, since the pleasure is all in D.C."

This corniness makes her smile. "I hope I can see you soon."

"I'm working on it."

A pause. Then—

"Listen, Ziva, I'm sorry this is such a short call but I have to go now. But I will talk to you soon, all right?"

"All right. Good night – or, morning, for you."

"Bye."

And with that, the line goes dead.

Ziva puts the phone off and turns around to return to the office, when she sees Tony walking up towards her, whistling would-be-innocently with his hands in his pockets. Her eyes narrow and catch his with a steely fire that is both thrilling and nerve-racking to see.

"Were you eavesdropping, Tony?" she shoots at him, stepping in front of him with her arms crossed.

"Of course not! I was just coming back from the bathroom."

His smile is wide and pleasant, but there's a hint of jubilance and mischief behind it that makes her arch an eyebrow and then narrow her eyes even further, making him recall that old cliché, 'if looks could kill.'

"I was taking the long way back," he hastens to explain.

The precarious look on her face doesn't change – rather like a fierce feline protecting her kin from a foreigner who may or may not wreak havoc on her way of life. So Tony responds the only way he knows how – by widening his eyes all childish and doe-like and then slipping around her to take refuge at his desk.

She allows him to go, but her nerves are hot and on edge and he really is very smart to keep himself a few steps out of her reach, because fierce felines have a habit of lashing out unpredictably when they feel threatened.

* * *

It is when they arrive back to the office and Gibbs tells them to go interview someone and throws them the keys, that he realizes and she realizes that though they are very good actors, this isn't working and something must be done.

Tony had earlier believed that there were two options – confrontation or procrastination in the name of "moving on" – but in reality, they have not moved on because they haven't gone anywhere. They are still where they always are, on opposite sides of the bull-pen separated by desks and an aisle and uncertainty, unless they are forced to converge for the sole purpose of work.

Simply – and tritely – put, this is the end of the line now. Something must be done.

* * *

The interview and the subsequent lead hunt takes them late into the night. At last, when the clock strikes two AM and they are woolly-headed and exhausted, brains spinning from staring at computer screens, Gibbs lets them go. McGee is the first one out, mumbling a "good night" through his deep yawn, leaving Tony and Ziva packing up behind him in the dim light of the quiet office.

They don't say anything to each other, just gather their things with their heads down. But he sneaks a couple of glances in her direction and times his exit with hers – they slip into the same elevator together, shoulders almost touching but not quite. It doesn't escape either of them that this elevator was the last place they were honest with each other.

When the elevator dings and spits them out into the parking garage, Ziva walks out to her car, her pace brisk. Looking at them now, it would seem that they are tired strangers who shared nothing more than a brief elevator ride. She's a damn good actress – but Tony is tired of the acting. On a split-second flash of impulse, he walks a little faster and follows her to her car.

At first, she thinks nothing of it – figures that his car is one of the many standing on this side of the garage. But she has always had a killer's instinct for knowing when she is being followed, so it doesn't take long for her to become suspicious, keep her guard up, prepare herself for this inevitable confrontation that he wants and she doesn't want.

When she finally arrives at her car, she whirls around, mouth hard and eyes confused, and asks, "What do you want, Tony?"

He parks himself a few paces in front of her, unflinching. "We need to talk."

She exhales slowly, resignedly. It is too late in the night to argue. "Fine. What do you want to talk about?"

"Us."

Of course.

"What about us?"

A pause. Then—

"Were we really not going to talk about this?"

"About what?"

Sometimes, he really can't believe her.

"Monday night."

Another pause.

"I was not under the impression that there was anything to say."

He arches a cynical eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"We did something…spontaneous…in the heat of the moment," she says carefully, her dark eyes fixed on him like laser beams. "I thought that was the end of it."

"I repeat – _seriously_?"

Her arms cross. "Then what do _you _think it was?"

"Certainly not nothing," Tony retorts. "You don't just make out with your partner in the elevator at work 'in the heat of the moment.'" He applies vigorous finger quotes on the last six words to make his point.

She is quiet then, chewing on her lower lip, trying to figure out the best way to navigate this obviously difficult conversation. She hates it when Tony starts barging into delicate situations like this, all reckless and determined, as though being straightforward will solve anything.

But since it's two in the morning and he isn't going to leave until he gets something out of her, she asks, "What do you want me to say, Tony?"

"The truth, preferably," he says.

"Fine. The truth is that I don't know what to say."

Something slightly wounded lights up his bright eyes. "Does it pain you that much to admit that you kissed me and liked it?"

"In case you have forgotten, Tony, I am currently seeing someone," she says a little too quickly.

"I know," he says. "Which makes all of this that much more intriguing."

"I thought you were seeing Agent Barrett as well." She says the name with some distaste.

Only now does he look a bit uncomfortable. "Not anymore," he says honestly.

So her prediction was true after all.

"Should I be sorry that it's over?"

"No."

"All right. Then I'm not."

A ghost of a grin sparkles in the corner of his mouth. "So where does this leave us?"

"I don't know," she says. "Where do you want to be?"

"Five years ago, we would've been at your apartment already."

The ghost of her old sexy smirk sparkles in the corner of her mouth. "Probably," she allows.

And for a moment, Tony just stands there, looking at her, thinking about what things could have been like if they had managed to find the courage to have this conversation years earlier. It would have contained heat, definitely – lots of heat, the kind that comes from speed and friction and coming too close; the kind that both of them are suckers for.

But he keeps looking at her and he finds that he's actually kind of glad that they didn't have this conversation before. Because she's no longer the kind of reckless that would get him in trouble, and she's not quite so manipulative or likely to be promiscuous. Her exoticness is gone now, but it has been replaced with a sweet familiarity that means that there are no suspicious circumstances, no chance to treat what they have as a disposable one-night-stand.

And, more than anything, he trusts her today like he didn't five years ago – trusts her with his life on the field, and the many thorny facets of his personality off the field, and now with maybe a little bit more, if she lets him.

So, still meeting her eyes, he exhales slowly and asks, "So what are we going to do?"

And she gets kind of soft around the edges, her mouth slack and her eyes all vulnerable. "I don't know, Tony. My hands are tied."

"I'm sure Mossad taught you how to untie them with your feet."

She isn't amused.

"I have a good thing with Ray."

"You still kissed me in the elevator."

"Yes, I kissed you in the elevator!" She throws her hands in the air and lets them fall back to her sides with a sound like gunshots. "What more do you want from me, Tony?"

"I just want to know why you did that." He almost takes a grim pleasure from being so calm as he watches her get more and more riled up.

But Ziva won't have it. She won't. It's two in the morning, and it's kind of chilly out, and it's been a long day, and they are standing in the parking garage, and who knows, maybe Gibbs is standing a few feet away hidden by a concrete pillar, listening to everything they're saying so he can bust them on it tomorrow. And she has a boyfriend. This isn't the right time or the right place to be doing any of this. She crosses her arms as his hands take refuge in his pockets, and her frustrated sigh comes out of her mouth like a misty speech bubble with nothing in it.

"I did it because at the time, it felt…right," she says at last, clipped and heavy, each sound determinedly enunciated. "Is that a good enough explanation for you?"

Maybe it's just a trick of light in this dimly lit garage, but his eyes glimmer strangely. "I think so."

She nods. "I am glad."

"But we still haven't decided what we're going to do now."

The set of her mouth is all hard and complicated again. "I thought we were going to go home and get some sleep before we have to be back here again to finish the case."

"Come on, Ziva."

"Tony, there is nothing _to _do now. We have to work."

"And that's it, that's all you have to say?"

"Well, what exactly do you expect me to do?" Her dark eyes are boring into his like construction drills. "Break up with Ray? Forget about the fact that there is a rule about this? We work together, Tony, and this job means too much to both of us. If anything goes wrong…I have nowhere else to go. And you have nowhere else you want to go. And I can't risk that."

He is stiff and silent then, and she senses that maybe that was a little too much all at once. But it's all true and anyway, the words are already out of her mouth and into his ears, and the only thing she can do is stand here, with his eyes on her and the wind kicking up her hair, and wait.

At long last, he says, "You're right. We have to work tomorrow. I'll see you in the morning?"

The construction-drill eyes have stopped; there seems to be an influx of sand in the wheels, clogging up the machine, causing trouble. "Yes. I will see you in the morning."

His gaze lingers on her for a little while longer, but her eyes are still all wide and sorry and tired; she has nothing more to give him. The numb anticipation that had gripped his heart has melted into heat and embarrassment and exhaustion, and there's no point in staying any longer. So he takes a couple of steps back, turns away slowly on the spot, then walks briskly away from the car, away from her, his ears burning.

It doesn't feel right. Every step he takes away from her – away from this, what they have – feels like another step he's taking in a direction that leads nowhere but down. Tony's brain is so confused by the actions of his feet; his brain wants him to go back there, argue some more with her, force something else out of her – resolve this, for once, rather than walking away, procrastinating the inevitable. _This isn't right!_

But all the same, his feet have a point. His feet remind his brain that really, nothing about the two of them is right. _Remember how you've kept secrets from her? How she's kept them from you? How even when you come clean, both of you still hold something back? How nothing ever does get resolved between the two of you – you just clear your throats and determinedly move forward toward the case, your own lives, because there's nothing more you can say? Do you remember all that?_

Yeah, maybe something has happened here in the past few days. Maybe things have changed – with the pictures, the elevator, with EJ and Ray and the way he figured out he has loved her for years and the way she crackles again when she thinks about him. And yeah, maybe this means that they should keep meandering towards each other and be together.

But then Tony has to remind himself – this really isn't a movie. There are no cameras, no close-ups, no artistically edited scenes to show a whole much more beautiful than the sum of its parts. Rules cannot be bent out of shape just because desire has gotten in the way; confessions can't be squeezed out of someone just because you want it so badly.

Tony has loved her for years, and he has a sneaking suspicion that Ziva feels the same way, but that doesn't mean they get a happily ever after in one of their beds. This thing they have between them – this modern 'new romantic' – means that because he does love her, he respects the fact that she has priorities that come before him.

Work, for example, is a big one – but also someone like Ray, someone who, no, isn't perfect, but offers her something Tony can't. Like convenience, like easiness. Like a blank, clean slate to be someone else on. Like normalcy.

Because she's always craved normalcy, stability, more than anything else and who can be normal when they are sleeping with their partner, who they work with, who has played witness to some brutal, terrible, private moments?

He gets that. He does. It's a blow, sure, because shyly, blunderingly – perhaps naively – he had prepared himself to be with her, rules be damned…but it's a blow he can get over. They have talked things through, at least a little, and they can go back to work in a few hours like they always do and pretend that nothing is wrong. They can, at long last, attempt to move on.

There is no soft rock soundtrack playing over his head tonight, just the quiet clomping sounds of shoes on concrete as he arrives at his car and slips inside. He drives out of the garage, speeding slightly, and starts his journey down the dark empty streets. The glow of too-bright artificial streetlights, coupled with the numb tingling in his stomach, adds an unreal sheen to the world tonight.

But, at the very least, Ziva was right about the weather. It has finally stopped storming; the skies are clear. He stifles a yawn and drives home without incident.

* * *

A/N: I won't lie, I feel bad. I made you wait so long just to give you something so depressing. And believe me, I tried. I tried to find the words that sound like Ziva that say yes. But it just didn't seem to fit here. So defining that 'new romantic' at the end there was my way of trying to please you – yes, he does love her! – but also kind of explain why maybe the show frustrates us T/Z fans the way it so often does. Loving someone doesn't always translate to sex and a happy ending. Sometimes, it means respecting that something/someone else means more and backing off.

Granted, I'm sure I'll write happier stories in the coming weeks, anticipating and following the Season 9 premiere, but for now this is what I've got and I hope you liked it and I hope you'll review.

Cheers – and thanks for reading!


End file.
